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Drowsy with the harmony

Friday, 28 September 2012

Freddie, Rose, your mum and dad have arrived. See, they've made a banner. And that's quite a big camera they've got. Should your dad really be standing on that table? Ah, that's sweet, they know all the words. And they're dancing, how charming. Look, your mum's crying her head off. Aren't you going to say hello?

This year, both the bots were finally old enough to go on the senior school music tour. Two coach loads of singers and musicians, plus overexcited teachers, go for a week every August to somewhere fantastic in Europe. They sing and play jazz and swing in squares, by lakes, in churches.

It was Freddie's birthday while they were away. He was a bit thoughtful about that and so we suggested Edward and I fly out for a week. We would attend the concerts and on his birthday take them, any little chums they cared to invite, out to dinner. Rose immediately asked to be excused; the whole thing would be embarrassing. And anyway, they had a rooftop pool at the hotel. And anyway, it was Freddie's birthday, not hers. And anyway it would just be really, really embarrassing.

By the time we waved off the coach, prior to our dash to the airport, Freddie had also decided that he'd be fine on his birthday, and in fact, we really didn't need to come to any of the concerts. It would probably be embarrassing.

I had made a list of the paintings and sculptures I thought we should see. I organised early-morning bookings at the Florentine museums, googled restaurant reviews and made reservations. We sorted out a hire car and printed maps and directions to the five concerts they were performing.

Our hotel, which turned out to be a castle, was in the absolute middle of nowhere. It dated from the 14th century and was a cicada-filled paradise; great scented bushes of ancient greying lavender and rosemary; crumbling ochre walls; thoughtful spots of shade for the wimpy Inglesi. That dry, throbbing heat for the sun-worshipping Scot. Heaven. That first night, the bots texted - it's fine, don't come. Please. You'll be embarrassing.

We negotiated attendance at one evening concert. The tiny cobbled square was pinpricked by candles; we perched on rickety old chairs and tried not to cry or clap too loudly. The bots muttered 'Hi' as they ran past at the end. It took three hours to drive back to the hotel.

The next morning, we cancelled the tightly-packed schedule of reservations we'd made. We didn't see a single masterly brushstroke. Not a solitary marble rump. Not a shaving of truffle passed our lips. Instead, we spent the entire week reading by the deserted swimming pool. Giddy with solitude and freedom, we played Marco Polo, pushed each other in and did cannonballs. I did yoga and fell over a bit. Edward found an old wooden ladder and scrumped white peaches and tiny pears from the orchard.

11 comments:

Hello Elizabeth:Oh how good it is not to be young. Of course, the endless energy, freedom from responsibility and fearless approach to almost everything are positives but there are so many negatives that the balance is clearly, in our view, in favour of the 'here and now' rather than the before.

How wonderful to have the freedom to be embarrassing in whatever ways one wishes without the peer pressure of the young. Yes, better by far to be young at heart. And, we believe, one can be too young for Italy..........you sound to have got it just right!

Lovely Hattatts, yup, no prep. That's the clincher for me. Never suffered the embarassment gene, but Edward, being English, is embarrassed by breathing and walking.Hope you both have a wonderful weekend!

I've found that now my son is a little older, he seems happy to walk by my side and talk to me whereas a couple of years ago he would walk three feet behind and grunt. I feel we have come out the other side of teenagerdom at the age of 16. It's lovely here.

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